


A Life in Parentheses

by painted_pain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Pre-Canon, Stranded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:04:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/painted_pain/pseuds/painted_pain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam watches as bright red tail lights swerve wildly, desperately, down the empty road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life in Parentheses

Sam watches as bright red tail lights swerve wildly, desperately, down the empty road, two bright spots in the never-ending darkness that seethes and rolls and creeps ever nearer, closing in on him and suffocating him. Those red lights glare at him angrily, devastatingly, as they slowly recede into nothing, the comforting and familiar rumble of the Impala never sounding so alien, so unknown. It makes Sam uncomfortable, feeling alone and abandoned (even though Dean offered to give him a lift and he accepted; it was his  _choice_ , he got in the car).   
  
Except the duffels at his feet were packed by his own hand, not dumped in and then barely zipped bag thrown at him; t-shirts, jeans, jackets, even socks and underwear, all neatly folded, clean, precise lines, slotted together compactly to make the most of the limited space. Sam’s whole life is contained in the two duffels at his feet and the backpack on his back, hanging of his right shoulder, put in there with hands forced steady (no tremors, he would not allow them to tremble, so weak and so afraid), packed two days before he needed to leave. The backpack was packed not even an hour ago, under the broken gaze of his brother. Sam didn’t need to look at Dean to see the shuttered look in his eyes, the splintered shards of pain strewn all over the floor in the space between them (he thought, in a strange flight of fancy, that he was glad he had been wearing his boots because those shattered pieces would have torn his feet to bloody ribbons).   
  
Sam feels stranded at this bus depot in the middle of Nowheresville, USA. Stranded (even though he’s waiting for a bus that he knows arrives within the hour because he did his research) and discarded like yesterdays old news (even though this was his choice, he  _needed_  to leave) and pretty much all alone (even though - - no, this is true and it cuts at his heart).    
  
_You walk out that door, don’t you ever come back._   
  
The words echo and bounce and stab through his head, vile, harsh, and unrepentant. Sam shivers violently but there’s no wind, no sudden drop in temperature, no chill. He still feels cold, like he’s missing a vital layer of protection (he doesn’t have his big brother to protect and hold him and keep him safe) and he brings his hands up to chafe some warmth into his bare upper arms, bare flesh pimpled with goose bumps.   
  
He goes to pick up the duffel bags by his feet, his hands shaking uncontrollably, the reality of his situation hitting him so hard he stumbles backwards for a moment, sucking in a deep breath that gets stuck in his throat and he chokes (he’s just a kid, barely eighteen, what is he doing, God), spitting out curses that foul the air around him and weigh it down. He heaves silently for a moment, chest aching with the effort, a need to stave off an imminent panic attack. Sam stares across the road into the empty nothingness beyond, nothing but trees and fields, and allows it to calm his mind to a blissful numbness.   
  
This time, when he reaches down to grab the handles of his bags, Sam’s hands barely tremble and he picks them up and walks inside the bus depot, bright white lights welcoming him in (even though as he finally steps inside, he leaves half of himself behind, left stranded outside the door, waiting for a lift that will never come).


End file.
